


Thread

by wubz-bubx-redux (Inorganic_soot)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Red String of Fate, Soulmate AU, Symbolism, color symbolism, could be read as gen - Freeform, if you tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inorganic_soot/pseuds/wubz-bubx-redux
Summary: Stan has seen a red string extend from his wrist and wrap around his brother for as long he can remember. Every year, they get more and more tangled in each other.For the Summer of Stancest - AU or Canon divergence prompt





	Thread

When Stan is four he makes an intricate pattern with the thread that links him and his twin. He gets his fingers stuck in it and it’s tight enough that it hurts, but it doesn’t matter because it hurts the same way a good hug does, crushing but full of love. He doesn’t mind. He tries showing it to Ma but she can’t see it, even though she’s a psychic and she can see _more_ than everyone else – at least that’s what she says on the phone to all those people who call and call and call – but she does smile and say they were born like that: bright red and tangled into one another. Stan never thought to bring it up with Pops. He knows it wouldn’t end well.

It’s weird but Ford can’t see it either. That’s okay, they may be identical but they’re still different. Maybe it’s like Ford’s hands or smarts, only one of them’s got it so together they’re two of a kind. Together they’re Stan-Ford and Stan-Lee, tied halves of a whole.

When he is 14 in school they teach them about reproduction. He’s flushing to his ears and doesn’t dare let out a giggle but then the teacher starts talking about twins, specifically twins like them and he focuses – M-O-N-O-Z-Y-G-O-T-I-C – he makes a point to ask the spelling. Apparently, they used to be one single cell and then they split. He likes knowing that. He likes knowing he was a part of Ford.

The thread sort of extends out of his right wrist and it reminds him of Spiderman a little and that makes him feel cool although he doesn’t ever admit it because comic books are for _nerds_ , even when they’re about half-insect superheroes. And if Ford finds his collection of Spiderman comics he will never let it go. He’ll probably try to make him read about the asshole elastic man in Fantastic 4, who is Ford’s favourite character but who Stan hates with fiery, burning passion.

Maybe the thread is like a vein and that’s kind of creepy and gross but it makes sense because they are woven from the same things, they share the same blood.  

He can’t help but he has always been fond of the colour red. His shirts are striped with red, his boxing gloves are red, his car is red, sunsets are red, his bruises are red, and Ford’s lips are red. His favourite shade is a deep, warm burgundy that is rich and soft like velvet. He loves it especially because of what it always reminds him of.

Stan likes it best when they hold hands. Ford’s hands are always smooth, warm and big, and his hold is tight and their fingers intertwine just right. Palm against palm, all tied up with string. He likes the Stan-o-War too because it is covered with red lines, crisscrossing its broken wooden edges and making it – them, _him_ – whole.

When he’s thrown out he doesn’t feel whole anymore.

He’s been torn to pieces, shredded. He’s been worn ragged and threadbare. He is alone and he’s never felt like that before. When he drives into the night (in his red car and he’s wearing red socks but he doesn’t think about it) the string is drawn tense and taut, like someone is always tugging at his hand and he looks at it extending into the dark distance back home and _fuck_ , does it hurt. _Come here, come here, come back,_ it says. But Stan knows better. He does, he really does.

He drives for a very, very long time.

He tries to forget. He wears long sleeves. Sometimes, he wears knock-off watches and sometimes, more regularly than he would like, handcuffs. His wrists are never bare. At least, not for long.

The desert is burnt orange and ceaseless. He has stopped being Stanley Pines ten states and many years ago. Everywhere he turns he is hated. Banned. He understands why Ford doesn’t want him back. He has always been a broken thing, something that must stick to something whole and drain it of everything because he will die if he doesn’t. Parasite. Parasite. Leach.

He is always doing something, most of the time it is not good, but he does it because he must. He is hungry and tired and empty – no matter what he does he is always empty. In the trunk of Rico’s car he is biting his way through wires and metal. His gums are raw and there is dark red, red, _red_ all over his face and hands. He doesn’t know how but the string is twisted around his throat and it’s choking him and he almost lets it but he feels it shift faintly, like someone is trying to loosen it so he can breathe. And he does. In and out. And he bites.

He survives, but just barely. And he lives, if this is what living is. 

When he sees the postcard the pull on his wrist is stronger, leading him from the sandy, wasteland heat to towering forests of snow. He sleeps intermittently but his dreams are plagued with half-forgotten images of things he doesn’t understand: triangles and painfully bright yellow. He’s never liked yellow, it reminds him too much of the sun. For comfort, he wears a thick, red jacket.

He’s lucky, in a way, that he was born knotted down because no one he meets knows where Gravity Falls is. He just follows the string across the winding, twisting roads to the middle of nowhere, to a cabin in the woods. He knows this is his destination because the thread is loose and lax for the first time in a decade, curling up on the floor as he knocks at the door. His right hand feels oddly slack and free, like he’s stopped straining against something.

The door opens and it is his brother, manic and holding aloft a fucking crossbow. It is a punch in the gut, he’s still not trusted and it gets worse and worse because he’s told to leave. He’s still not needed, not really. He’s useful in the same way a knife is useful, serves a purpose and makes the job easier. A means to an end but never a person. Where can he go? Across the ocean, far away, and even further than that.

He’s wanted to tear the thread: he’s taken lighters to it and tried to burn it, he’s held wicked, sharp scissors and tried to cut, he’s used his teeth when he was drunk and he didn’t have anything else. Nothing has ever worked. It never breaks nor does it even fray, but he thinks hearing those words just might do it.

He’s angry. It _hurts_. Blood is bubbling out of him, hot and wet fury, and he wants to scream. They fight and he’s not thinking straight and he pushes him and _Oh, God no_ —

The portal is a white so vivid it is blue, and the string that leads into it is broken and red.

**Author's Note:**

> So the original thing I wrote for SOS got deleted by my asshole computer (a shitty lots-of-portal!fords/mullet!stan thing) and I wrote this is in an hour because apparently there are no Soul Mate AUs.
> 
> hmu on tumblr: https://wubblez-bubblez.tumblr.com/


End file.
